


Souvenir

by msgenevieve



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Charming Family bonding, Gen, Mention of Character Death, Missing Scene, s2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:19:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to explain, the things we choose to hold onto, the things we choose to let go.  Perhaps the best explanation is that there really is none to be had.  Emma and Mary Margaret finally talk about Graham.  (spoilers for 107)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribblecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblecat/gifts).



> The wonderful show deals with so many characters and plotlines, it's inevitable that certain things go unseen and unexplained. I find myself thinking about many of these things, and rather than go round the twist thinking about them, I decided to start writing about them. This is a personal head canon and all concrit is happily accepted.

~*~

 

She finds it in Mr Gold’s shop, of course - where else would it be? – and stretches out a faintly trembling hand, fingertips splayed against the cool glass cabinet.

“Ah.” She lifts her head to find the proprietor smiling at her. “Of course.”

Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, Mary Margaret taps one finger gently on the glass. “May I see it?”

“But of course, dearie.” Gold says again, his head tilting to one side as he studies her with bright, too-knowing eyes. “It’s yours, after all.”

Pushing aside the usual frigid flutter of unease she always feels when she’s reminded that her memories have never been hers alone, she cups her hand, closing her eyes as he drops the hand-carved whistle into her palm.

_It will bring you aid. You’ll be led to safety. Now go. Run!_

Oh God.

_Graham._

“How much do you want for it?” she hears herself ask, and is answered with a soft, flat chuckle.

“Well, you tell me, dearie. How much is it worth to you?”

Tightening her fingers around the slender reed, she lifts her head to meet his eyes in an unflinching stare. Perhaps he still thinks he’s dealing with a shy school teacher, but that woman is long gone. “More than I can ever afford to pay you, but you already know that, so why bother asking?”

Admiration flickers briefly behind the mirrored surface of his dark eyes, and his smile widens. “Tell you what.” He nods at the whistle in her palm. “Why don’t you take some time to share the story behind that keepsake with your daughter, and I’ll waive my usual fee.”

She stares at him. “And why would you do that?”

Gold merely smiles. “Because I suspect you and your daughter have far more in common than you know.”

Snow hesitates - because doing something Rumplestiltskin wants is rarely a good idea - but the weight of Graham’s legacy is suddenly heavy in her hand, and the need to share his sacrifice with someone who cared for him is bubbling up inside her, torching her caution. In the end, she simply swallows the half-dozen retorts that are clamouring to be tossed in Gold’s direction, and gives him a smile in return. “Thank you.”

His unspoken, ‘don’t thank me yet, dearie’, hangs heavy in the air at her back as she leaves his shop.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Emma winces as the door shuts with a very loud bang behind her, immediately darting an apologetic glance in her mother’s direction. To her surprise, though, Mary Margaret hasn’t even seemed to have noticed that she’s arrived. “Hey, how was your day?”

“Mmm, what?”

Dumping her coat and bag, Emma wanders closer to the dining room table where her mother is sitting, cradling something in her hands, an odd, almost faraway expression in her eyes. “You okay?”

“Just remembering.” Mary Margaret gives her a melancholy smile that makes Emma’s heart twinge. “You know, there are so many things we haven’t had time to discuss since the curse was broken.”

“Oh, God.” The words are out of Emma’s mouth before she can stop them. “Do I need to get wine first?”

Her mother laughs softly, and the twinge eases. “Maybe.”

Emma starts towards the refrigerator, then frowns at the unfamiliar object sitting on the table between the other woman’s splayed hands.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a whistle.”

Emma wonders if that’s supposed to mean something to her. “Okay.”

Mary Margaret looks at her, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Graham gave it to me.”

At the sound of his name, a cold shudder ripples through the pit of Emma’s stomach. “Here in Storybrooke?”

Her mother shakes her head. “No, before.” Standing on suddenly unsteady legs, Emma finds herself sinking in to the chair opposite her mother. “You knew him? Before, I mean?”

Mary Margaret laughs softly again, but there’s little humour in it. “You could say that. Regina sent him to kill me.”

Emma literally cannot think of an answer to that. _How is it possible that they've never talked about this?_

“But he changed his mind, and he let me go.” Her mother touches the crudely made whistle gently, almost reverently. “He gave me this and told me to use it if I ever needed help.”

Emma stares at the whistle, the leather ties wrapped around her left wrist suddenly seeming to tighten, making her pulse quicken.

“Mary Margaret-”

“He saved my life, and I never had a chance to thank him.” Her mother picks up the whistle, balancing it on her palm. “I’d forgotten all about this, and then I saw it in Gold’s shop today.” She lets out a soft sigh, rubbing her thumb over the thin reed. “I’m so glad I finally have something to remember him by.”

Emma closes her eyes tightly, a futile effort against the sudden warmth of tears, her fingers twisting through the leather shoelace around her wrist, fingertips rubbing like a touchstone.  As though from a distance, she hears her mother's voice.

"Emma, what's wrong?"

“He died because of me.”

She feels the cool press of her mother’s hand on hers, stilling her fingers frantic movements. “What happened that night?” Her hand is squeezed a little tighter. “You’ve never really said much about it.”

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t._

Emma takes a deep breath. Opening her eyes, she finds the strength she needs in her mother’s eyes. “We were at the station. He’d just told Regina he wasn’t going to be with her anymore.” Her words are tripping over themselves, coming fast and furious now. “He kissed me, and I felt this-” she pauses, struggling to find the right word, “this weird kind of _shockwave_ go through him. He said that he remembered, and he _thanked_ me, for God’s sake, and then his face just-” She gulps back a fresh wave of tears and regret. “He was gone before I even knew what was happening.”

Mary Margaret's eyes are brimming with tears. "Oh, Emma-"

“He died in my arms.” She’s holding her mother’s hand tightly now, an anchor in the swell of the memory of that fucking terrible night, the memory she fights every day to keep at bay. “He’d been trying for days to tell me that something was wrong, that Regina had taken his heart, but I just -” She breaks off, sucking in another shaky breath, finally saying the words that have etched out her insides for so many weeks. “Why did he remember? The curse wasn’t broken yet.” She swipes at her wet eyes with her free hand. “I don’t understand why him and no one else.”

“I don’t know why.” Her mother gives her a sad smile. “Maybe it was because someone had a grip on his heart. It made him fight that much harder to remember who he was.”

“You think Regina really-?” She can’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t want to finish the sentence. Because Regina is Henry’s mother too and he’s with her right now, and if Emma thought for one minute that -

“I don’t know.” Her mother shakes her head. “Actually, though, I meant you.”

Emma feels a dull flush creep up the back of her neck at the thought, the memory of that last soft kiss making her chest twist with an unsettling mixture of longing and confusion. “Graham and me, we weren’t - it wasn’t like that.”

“Maybe not.” Mary Margaret squeezes her hand. “But there was something there, right? The two of you had _connected_ , and that _always_ means something.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and Emma feels something deep inside her heart crack, a hairline fracture of grief and missed chances. “He saved your life, and just look how your daughter repaid him.”

Her mother straightens in her chair, her bright eyes sparking, her jaw set, and Emma suddenly knows she is no longer talking to Mary Margaret Blanchard but Snow White, the rightful ruler of the Enchanted Forest. “You gave him back his true self, Emma.”

The bitterness would burn a hole in her tongue if she let it. “For all the good it did him.”

“He was a man of honour.” Her mother’s voice drops to a soothing murmur. “If he died doing the right thing, he would have thought it a good death.”

Emma presses her lips together into a tight line. One day she might buy the line Mary Margaret is giving her, but it’s not today. Knowing she’s reached her capacity for confidences about that night, she gives her mother an unsteady smile, then touches the bootlace wrapped around her wrist. “Speaking of keepsakes-”

“I’ve been wondering about that.” Her mother offers her a gentle smile. “I don’t remember seeing you wear it before-”

She stops, a faint flush colouring her face. Ignoring the words that are shimmering in the space between them – _before Graham died_ – Emma shrugs.

“I didn’t have anything to remember him by. Gold gave me those walkie talkies for Henry, but I wanted something more-"

“Personal?”

“His spare boots were still in his office when I took over.” Emma smiles at the memory, and the hurt is still there, but it’s tempered, faintly dulled around the edges. “He’d made such a big song and dance about how both laces had broken within an hour of each other, and how he’d swap me a donut run for a trip to the store to buy a replacement pair.” She looks at her mother. “It sounds crazy, I know, but at least it was something, you know? Something that I could keep.”

Mary Margaret pushes back her chair with a sudden scrape, then leans down, curling one arm around Emma’s shoulders and hugging her tight. “I’ve been staring at a thirty-year old whistle all afternoon,” she murmurs, a faint tremor in her voice. “Who am I to say what’s crazy?”

Emma chokes back a bark of stupid, ridiculous laughter (because how can she laugh when she feels as though all they’ve done this afternoon is open up a whole new can of worms) and wonders how the hell she is going to look Madam Mayor in the face without punching her in said face the next time she sees her. But the solid warmth of her mother’s small frame is more comforting than she had even imagined possible, and maybe one day it will be possible for her to keep putting one foot in front of the other without looking backwards with every step. “Is it time for wine _now_?”

She feels the brush of her mother's kiss on her forehead, and wonders just who is comforting who.  “Definitely.”

 

~*~


End file.
